


Sharing Beds

by lonelywalker



Category: The Art of Fielding - Chad Harbach
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Relationship, Dating, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to have something "resembling a normal relationship", Owen takes Guert on a date to Milwaukee.</p><p>Spoilers for most of the novel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing Beds

There were few activities Affenlight enjoyed better than reading in bed with a partner, even if that partner were, in fact, in an entirely different bed, in another building fifty feet away. 

Ever since he and Owen had spent their first night together, in a not particularly nice motel room, Owen had taken to calling him in the evenings when they were both under the covers, some novel or other open partway through. They’d chat and read, and finally switch out the lights. If Affenlight closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the glowing warmth of Owen’s body beside him, Owen’s fingertips playfully drifting down his spine to his buttocks while Owen’s expression remained utterly composed, focused on the text in front of his eyes. He could imagine closing his own book and nestling up to Owen, waiting for him to finish for the night and then impatiently sliding a hand up under the shirt of Owen’s plaid pajamas, caressing a pert nipple with the pad of his thumb until O finally sighed and put the book and his glasses to one side, and, as they kissed, pushed Affenlight’s palm against the stiffness in his soft plaid pants.

They never tried phone sex, even though Owen always jokingly insisted on knowing what Affenlight was wearing, even though both of them were now living alone, with no one to witness whatever went on in their bedrooms. Nonetheless, Affenlight was often left hard by the phone calls, left to think about Owen’s mouth on him, about the deep aching pleasure of Owen inside him, and how risky would it really be for Owen to slip out of bed, down a few flights of stairs and across an alley? But there were considerations other than someone seeing them. Pella might come home, for one thing. For another, Owen and the Harpooners had a punishing schedule of games. Affenlight was keeping him up late enough already with the phone calls. In person, he felt it unlikely they’d ever get off to sleep.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Owen asked.

Affenlight marked his place in the book, James’ _The Ambassadors_ , with a finger. “Tomorrow?” A Wednesday. “Nothing, so far as I know.” Even though he and Owen had given up on their four-thirty meetings due to O’s baseball practices and the very probable likelihood that quick blow jobs on couches would no longer satisfy either one of them, his schedule was still free after four. He’d been putting in time with the budget and running on the treadmill – having a lover forty years his junior was making him appreciate the benefits of stamina and a flat stomach.

“The regional tournament begins on Thursday. I’ll be occupied until Saturday. I don’t want to wait till then to see you.”

Affenlight tucked a bookmark between the pages and closed the book, rolling over onto his back. It was a real delight to hear Owen express his feelings in words, rather than simply through repeated phone calls and the hours they spent talking. “I’d like to see you too.”

“So let me take you out,” Owen said. “I’d say I’ll pick you up at eight, but I don’t have a car and Milwaukee is quite a drive away.”

“Milwaukee?”

“I think we can go there safely enough in the middle of the week. No more shoddy motels and basements. I want to take you to dinner, a real dinner in a real restaurant. And a movie.”

Affenlight considered it: Owen was right, no one from Westish would drive down to the city on a weeknight, and even the staff members like Coach Cox who lived there were unlikely to go out to eat after a two-hour drive. He himself usually hated the idea of the four-hour round trip, but in Owen’s company it was more than tempting. Still, he winced. “A movie?”

“There’s a French film I’ve been wanting to see. You can watch it, or you can hold my hand and enjoy my company in the dark. Do you speak French, by the way?”

“I can read it. Some of it.” He’d learned German in high school and some Dutch at home, neither of which had helped him at all when he’d actually visited Germany and the Netherlands. Pella had all the linguistic talent in the family and, besides, the natives had spent too much time guffawing over his name to pay any attention to what he was saying.

“And then we can spend the night in a hotel. Somewhere nice. I’ll look into it. As you so kindly paid for the motel room and our fish fries, I’ll make the arrangements this time.”

“O, I can handle it.” 

“Of course you can. But you’ve already been more than kind.” Owen’s voice dropped into a confidential whisper. “Relax, Guert. You’re not going to bankrupt me on one date.”

***

By six o’clock it was barely starting to get dark in Westish, and Affenlight lit a cigarette as he waited for Owen in the Audi, which was parked in a side street that led, eventually, down to the sports fields. In all likelihood no one would even care if they recognized the car and saw Owen clamber in – and people were usually spectacularly unobservant in any case, if years of teaching undergraduate classes was any guide – but the waiting made him nervous. What if someone saw them at the restaurant? Or canoodling at the movies? What excuse could he possibly have? Or what if Owen decided not to come after all?

But then there was a flash of movement in his wing mirror, and Owen tossed his messenger bag into the back seat before slipping into the front. “Hey,” he said. “Shall we?”

Owen’s hand slid over his on the gearstick as he drove. They didn’t say a word, as though the few people they passed on the streets could hear them. And then they were out onto broader streets, heading for the highway.

“Pull over,” Owen said.

Affenlight looked at him, alarmed. “What is it?”

“Just pull over.”

Affenlight stopped on the shoulder, which was barely a shoulder at all, two wheels on the grass. Maybe Owen felt sick. Maybe he wanted to go home. Maybe… Owen popped off his seatbelt, leaned across, and kissed him, hands cupping Affenlight’s freshly shaven cheeks. Affenlight wanted to tell him it was dangerous, although the light level was dropping fast, but he moaned against Owen’s lips instead, a keening sound of longing that embarrassed him badly. Owen just kissed him harder.

“I couldn't wait till Milwaukee,” he explained, and, snapping his seatbelt back into place, plucked Affenlight’s smoldering cigarette from the ashtray. “Can we listen to some opera?”

The two-hour drive to Milwaukee always seemed to remain a two-hour drive, regardless of how diligently Affenlight attempted to cut it shorter by driving dangerously fast or, tonight, however much he wanted it to go on forever. Much as having Owen alone in a hotel room appealed to him, he loved the quiet closeness of sitting side by side in the darkness of the highway, listening to the same music, Owen occasionally brushing a hand over his thigh or asking a question about the narrative. Only last week, Owen had questioned how much of a relationship Affenlight really wanted – was it only sex behind closed doors? Affenlight had thus far resisted telling him the full scope of the truthful answer, not because he wanted too little of Owen, but because he wanted too much. 

He wanted Owen to move in with him, into the Bremens’ house if he ended up buying it. He wanted Owen to decorate it to his heart’s content, to become firm friends with Pella, to spend evenings listening to music with him and reading in bed. He wanted them to make a home together: a domestic fantasy he desired even while finding it completely, uncharacteristically ridiculous that he would want such a thing. 

The idea of confidently introducing Owen to people – Bruce Gibbs, say, or a random stranger – as his partner or boyfriend or whatever one was supposed to call one’s twenty-one-year-old male lover, still filled him with anxiety. But by the time Owen graduated, if Owen was by then still even vaguely interested in being with a sixty-two-year-old man tied down to a daughter and a college, maybe it would be easier. It would probably never be _easy_. Even the most open-minded people in the world would find them strange: with differences in age and race, and no difference at all in sex, they would attract attention and whispers and gossip. But the same would be true if Owen were his age, or if he were dating a twentysomething girl. He’d dated women of other races before and heard the whispers.

The cinema Owen took him to was one of those arthouse places, and no one looked at them with even a blink of interest. They fit the target demographic perfectly: middle-aged couples and college-aged kids, all with messenger bags and pins and t-shirts like Owen’s. The cinema did not sell popcorn. 

In the theater itself, there were few enough audience members that they had the back row to themselves. Presumably no one but Owen came to this sort of movie to make out. Affenlight forced himself to relax, which he reflected was probably the worst way to relax, and so forced himself to breathe instead. As the lights went down, he reached to take Owen’s hand in his. By the first preview they were really, earnestly making out, the way Affenlight had never even done when he was Owen’s age. He was on the verge of suggesting they just leave for the hotel now when the movie started and Owen broke away, shushing him with a smile.

The movie was long and not unenjoyable, but Affenlight felt the way Owen probably felt listening to opera, as though he’d have to study it for years to really understand it and acquire a taste for it. So mostly he forgot to read the subtitles and just focused on Owen’s presence beside him, on the scent of Owen’s skin, and on the way his hand intermittently squeezed Affenlight’s.

At dinner, which was in a small Thai place that served a wide array of vegetarian dishes and conducted business with the lights on, Affenlight tried his best not to look up every time the door opened, tried to pay attention to Owen’s worries about the still-absent Henry and his research into the yips, but his stomach was churning and the wine – which was good, good wine – didn’t help.

“You look a little green,” Owen said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Guert…”

In the motel, after they’d made love, after Affenlight had managed to prove his devotion to Owen by taking him to dinner and inadvertently ditching his daughter at the same time, Affenlight had rested his head against Owen’s shoulder, his body throbbing not unpleasurably, his mind swimming in a half-drunk pool of sensation, and listened to Owen tell him, in reasonable, measured tones, how it had to be. Communication had been the thing, which meant finally swapping cellphone numbers on one level and sharing their lives on another. This included being honest about how he felt, even if it involved wanting to puke after having Owen come in his mouth.

Affenlight took another sip of wine. “I keep thinking someone’s going to see us.”

“That seems unlikely.” Owen gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Besides, who would think we actually came here together? Far more likely we ran into each other by accident and decided to chat about Tokyo and solar power.”

“I think the likelihood of us plus another person from the college all running into each other entirely by accident is even lower.”

Owen waved his fork. “Statistics are not my strong point. Eat up. I want to take you to a hotel and ravish you.”

“ _Ravish_ me?”

Owen pushed his plate closer. “Eat.”

***

The hotel was part of a major chain – many floors, frequented by business travelers. People coming and going at all hours. “I was tempted to choose one of the smaller, gay-friendly businesses,” Owen explained, “but anonymity seemed better. I’ll go and book us in. Wait here. I’ll text you.”

“Shouldn’t I deal with the paperwork?”

“I made the reservation. In any case, if one of us has to sneak in later it’d better be the white guy in a suit than the black kid in jeans.”

Affenlight wanted to object, to protest that surely no one would profile Owen like that, or hopefully anyone like that, but O really did have a point. So he sat in the parking lot, smoking a cigarette, waiting for the text. It came quickly enough, telling him the room number, and he strode across the lobby toward the elevators, looking as businesslike and purposeful as he could.

When Owen answered the door, he was already stripped down to his briefs. “I’m just going to take a shower,” he said. “There’s coffee.”

Affenlight locked the door and checked it twice before taking off his jacket, socks and shoes, and sitting back on the bed. His heart was still racing. But he’d drunk a lot less on this date, was still reasonably sober, and if he had the choice between taking Owen out on anxiety-ridden dates in the real world versus sitting alone at home, he’d face the disconcerting adrenaline rush every time. 

By the time Owen was done in the shower, Affenlight had folded his clothes in a neat stack on the chair by the window. He still felt nervous about being completely naked with Owen, but there was no point in trying to hide what he looked like. If he no longer possessed the smooth, muscular youth of a Jason Gomes, he couldn’t very well fake it. And besides, Owen had already seen and felt his entire body and was still unaccountably attracted to him. So that was something.

Owen lay down beside him with an effortless grace, kissing him, pressing his head back into the pillow as Affenlight’s fingertips found the droplets of shower water that were still lingering on his back, pooled at the base of his spine. 

Owen planted another kiss on his lips and moved down, sucking loudly at his nipples as Affenlight’s hips pressed up against his belly. As much as Owen made him feel helpless, submissive, feminine – at least in comparison with the sexual habits of forty years – he also made those things feel _incredible_. Affenlight watched as Owen licked curiously at the head of his still-soft penis, and then took him into his mouth. It was as if the breath had been crushed out of Affenlight’s lungs, that sensation, as he thickened between Owen’s lips and under Owen’s tongue.

On occasion, despite himself, he worried about getting hard when he was with Owen – he could only vaguely remember being young enough to be achingly, insistently hard all the time, not just on demand but often when he demanded precisely the opposite. He’d never actually had a problem in that regard, if anything Owen provoked a stronger, faster reaction from him than anyone had in years, but he hated the idea of being a disappointment.

The one advantage age gave him was time – time to lie back and savor the workings of Owen’s mouth, feeling himself pulsing with heat, thick with saliva, feeling the short almost-stubble of Owen’s hair against his fingers, watching the regular slide of cock into mouth. Had he ever thought this was possible that first afternoon when Owen had first riveted his attention, when he’d spent the evening in uncomfortable contemplation, trying to define his feelings, his penis as confused as the rest of him? He’d started, eventually, to fantasize about it, or rather to tentatively _try_ to fantasize about it, some pseudo-scientific experiment to test whether he wanted Owen’s body as well as his wit and his brilliance. But actually having it happen? Actually having Owen like this, actually _being had_ like this?

Owen backed off, wetly kissing the head of Affenlight’s penis before scooping his bag up from the floor. Affenlight folded an arm back behind his head, watching him, and then pulled over another pillow instead. Owen rolled a condom onto him and then worked him with a handful of lubricant, reaching back to apply more to himself. “Shh, slowly,” Owen said, although Affenlight hadn’t moved an inch.

At the motel, when they’d first decided to try penetrative sex, Affenlight had asked, feeling like a teen virgin, why Owen was so insistent they use condoms when they’d already been swallowing each other’s come for weeks. Owen had paused briefly, two fingers still inside Affenlight, and adopted the expression of a conflicted professor. “You’re right, we should have used protection from the start… but given the circumstances, I’m more worried about UTIs than STDs.”

Recently Affenlight had been entertaining vague thoughts of getting another physical, weighing up the pros and cons of being made to feel like an old man by some punk just out of medical school, and wondering whether there was a box he’d need to check now about having oral and anal sex with a man. Presumably he wasn’t allowed to give blood anymore, not that he’d made a habit of it in the first place, but the thought made him slightly disconcerted. Owen was going to turn him into a radical activist by degrees.

Now, though, he made himself keep still as Owen carefully edged onto him, trying to keep the verb “impale” from his mind. Unlike their activities at the motel, Affenlight had adopted this position with women probably hundreds of times, but the parts involved were a little different and there was no mistaking even slender, lovely Owen for a woman. As Owen sighed with relief and started to fuck himself on Affenlight’s cock, Affenlight began to stroke him, the insides of his thighs, the softness of his belly, the dark hair at the base of his penis. He loved feeling Owen hard: the alienness of such a reaction in a lover, the knowledge that he, somehow, had done this to Owen. Perhaps he imagined it, but it seemed to make his own penis harder in sympathy as Owen exposed the heat of his body.

“Does it feel good?” he asked.

Owen nodded, leaning back, planting his palms on either side of Affenlight’s thighs. “Uh huh.”

Affenlight couldn’t help moving, pushing up with his hips, watching the slick slide of his body inside Owen’s. Owen responded with moans and gasps, his eyes closed.

On that very first evening, after Affenlight had given the first and hopefully worst blow job of his life, they’d sat on the loveseat and kissed between sips of coffee, sharing a cigarette. “It was a little too much for you,” Owen had said. “You don’t have to do it again. We can do something else, if you want.”

Affenlight had kissed him again, carefully, softly, his fingertips barely touching the swollen, bruised side of Owen’s face. Up until that moment he’d been concerned about what might happen the next time they were together: he felt like a fool on his knees before Owen, his mouth on Owen’s cock, with no real idea what he was doing. He’d felt sick afterward, too, not really because of Owen’s come in his mouth, but because the adrenaline rush of fear and uncertainty and desperation to please had cramped up his stomach so violently. But the idea of never, ever doing it again, never being close to Owen like that, never continuing on their unerring path of ever-tighter intimacy, had scared him more. “It wasn’t too much,” he had said. “I want more. Just… I might need some instructions.”

The physicality of it seemed ridiculous on some level: all this trouble, all the terror of being discovered and the worries of impressing Owen, just to come in a condom in another man’s ass. But all physicality was, at its core, ridiculous. Well… with the possible exception of Owen himself, the muscles of his arms and chest tensed and starkly outlined by the hotel room lighting, pinpricks of sweat on his thighs under Affenlight’s hands, his penis erect and dark and beautiful… Affenlight couldn’t recall ever finding a penis beautiful before, not even his own, not even on a statue, but he wanted Owen’s beauty in his mouth, in his ass, in every niche and corner of his being. He wanted to be surrounded and filled and ripped apart and rebuilt. Every night, if at all possible.

Owen opened his eyes and licked dry lips, moving forward so they could kiss. Affenlight wrapped his arms around him, still moving, feeling his own movement through Owen’s body. “You feel so good, Guert,” Owen said. “So good. But harder, please?”

Affenlight rolled them over, finding better purchase with Owen beneath him, Owen moving his legs up and apart so Affenlight could fuck into him with a force he worried was really too much, but Owen, eyes half-closed, was stroking himself, murmuring: “Oh god, harder.”

Owen came in a spurt of white over his belly and pulled Affenlight’s head down to kiss him even as he was shuddering from his orgasm, gasping for breath. They were still kissing, arms around each other, when Owen blindly pulled away the condom, enveloped Affenlight’s cock in warm fingers, and gently brought him off.

“We should take a shower,” Owen said without much insistence at all, idly playing with Affenlight’s tousled hair as they lay together.

There was some appeal in endless hot water twinned with the equally endless delights of Owen’s body, but not enough appeal to make Affenlight do anything but stretch to switch off the light. 

***

Their hotel room faced east and Affenlight woke up just as dawn was breaking. Used to making coffee at around four before heading to his office, he rolled out of bed and took his morning piss. Owen was still fast asleep, his breathing a gentle snuffle, hugging a chunk of the comforter. Affenlight considered waking him up with a blow job, but the regional championship started today and Owen needed his rest, even if he was still likely to spend most of his time on the bench. So, wishing he’d brought reading material with him, Affenlight simply got back into bed, wrapped an arm around Owen, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the sun was brighter and the kettle was whistling. 

“Sorry, no espresso,” Owen said. He was sitting naked on the end of the bed, looking through tiny packets of coffee, milk, and sugar. He smiled. “And good morning.”

Affenlight checked his watch through bleary eyes. Seven. That meant reaching Westish by nine if he left now, which clearly wasn’t going to happen. Mrs. McCallister would have his head. And what if Pella was looking for him? She wouldn’t be, or at least she’d assume, correctly, that he was off somewhere having illicit sex with his illicit lover, but the worry still nagged at him. 

It dissipated as Owen pressed a hot mug into his hands and sat down cross-legged by his side, sipping from his own mug. “If you could just drop me off at the stadium, I’d appreciate it. There’s little point in driving all the way to Westish just to get on a bus and come back here.”

“I wish I could stay.”

Owen smiled. “You have a college to run.”

“It runs me, most of the time.” Affenlight sighed and turned his attention to consuming as much caffeine in as short a time as possible. “I should be able to come on Saturday, for the final. There’s an event with the trustees, but I’ll try to get away.”

“If we make it to the final.”

Affenlight raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like Mike Schwartz talk.”

“It’s realism. These are good teams. We’ll give everything we can, even without Henry, but the odds aren’t in our favor.”

“I thought statistics weren’t your strong point.”

They took that shower, long and soapy, Owen complaining about the waste inherent in multitudes of tiny shampoo and conditioner bottles, but fortunately not the hot water itself. And then, as if to negate most of the shower’s benefits, they put on yesterday’s clothes once more. 

“Mike can bring my gear,” Owen said, tapping out a text on his BlackBerry. “And there are showers at the stadium.”

“No one will wonder why you’re already in Milwaukee?”

“I doubt most of the team have any interest at all in how I spend my nights. And Mike may have some idea, of course.”

For a secret relationship, Affenlight reflected, there were certainly enough people who knew about it – Pella, and Henry, and Mike. He was still unclear how Pella had even figured it out, but at least none of the three of them seemed like the types to tell anyone else. At least while sober. 

Affenlight combed his fingers through his hair and scratched at his jaw. He should have prepared better – brought a change of clothes, a hairbrush and a razor. Probably he could call the front desk for toiletries, but he didn’t want to make Owen hide in the bathroom… or hide in the bathroom himself, seeing as this was ostensibly Owen’s room. Well, maybe Mrs. McCallister would actually be pleased to see he’d spent the night somewhere else. Lately, possibly due to Pella’s presence, she’d taken to teasing him about settling down with a nice girl.

“When was the last time you were on a date?” Owen asked. He’d made more coffee. Affenlight sipped it gratefully.

“A date?” Most of his relationships of the past few years had been a night or two at conferences. He hadn’t been joking, telling Pella about the lack of interesting women at Westish. They were all married, or gay, or students. “A few years ago I had a girlfriend in the history department… Westish is terrible for dating.”

“No movies, no theater, no opera…”

“One good restaurant packed with Westish staff, and every other restaurant packed with Westish students. Mostly we just stayed home.”

Owen was observing him with a smile. “So if I wasn’t a student, if we could be seen together, we’d still probably be sneaking around.”

“Not _sneaking_ …” Affenlight sighed. “I’m sorry it’s so difficult. It’s not that you’re a student. It’s that I’m the president.”

“I knew who you were the first time I kissed you, Guert. And I have to admit there’s a certain appeal to dating the president of Westish College. An old-fashioned, somewhat patriarchal appeal, but an appeal nonetheless.”

Downstairs, Affenlight procured sandwiches – pastrami for him, veggie for Owen – from a store across the street while Owen settled the hotel bill with his “tolerating the company of Henry Skrimshander” money from the college. They sat eating in the parking lot by the stadium, which was currently almost empty but would soon fill up with fans and scouts and reporters. The Audi’s clock read 8:15.

“You should be going,” Owen said. “There’s no point in us winning a regional championship if the college falls to pieces while we’re gone.”

He was right. Affenlight knew he was right. But the two-hour drive without Owen’s company, and then at least two days before they could see each other again, seemed like a yawning void. He wondered if he could break the habit of a lifetime and call in sick, just so he could stay and watch the game.

But Owen was already eating the last bite of his sandwich and opening the car door, swinging his bag onto his shoulder. The door shut with a clunk and then Owen crossed around the front of the car and tapped on the window. Affenlight wound it down.

“I’ll call you later,” Owen said, folding his arms on the window frame as he leaned in. “Keep your phone on. And if you see Henry…”

Affenlight nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

Owen ducked his head inside for just a second, long enough to give Affenlight a kiss. “Thank you for a wonderful date, Guert. I wish I’d brought flowers. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“Why don’t you come to my apartment after the game?” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider the risk and make himself too anxious to speak. “To celebrate.”

“Or commiserate.” Owen smiled and straightened up. “I’d love to, but you’d better get going,” he said, and turned away, walking over toward the stadium entrance. If he stayed, Affenlight would probably never leave.

Affenlight folded up his sandwich wrappers on the passenger seat and turned on the engine. Reality was once again intervening in his life, a reality filled with unending appointments and responsibilities. An escape like last night was just what he needed, but on a more regular basis.

“Hey O?” he called.

Owen turned, eyebrows raised.

Affenlight smiled. “Bring a book.”

The drive back to Westish was as long and boring as ever, but this time at least promised the hope of better, less lonely days – and nights – to come.


End file.
